You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Scrolling through Instagram as I tend to do on a lazy Sunday evening, I found this infographic:

I could write an entire doctoral thesis on how this relates to my own life. Like, how I’m glad I didn’t end up a journalist, because I can’t handle that kind of pressure. Or how I’m glad I never reached Taylor Swift levels of fame, because, well, I can’t handle that kind of pressure.

I’d like to think I’m the fancy bejeweled Russian kind, though.

Young Jess wanted a lot of things that, in retrospect, adult Jess would have considered a nightmare. None more so than my middle school crush, who I absolutely believed was my soulmate.

Ah yes, the face of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

I remember crying myself to sleep over this kid, who will remain unnamed, but we’ll just call him Kyle. The way his floppy auburn hair jostled in the wind at youth group meetups, the way his blue-green eyes shone like sea glass at Cedar Point. I was obsessed with this guy in a way I’d never been obsessed with anyone ever. I didn’t think I was capable of having a crush. The closest I’d come before was strange thoughts about Ann Wilson from the band Heart and this dude from an American Idol knockoff no one remembers. I wasn’t supposed to have crushes on people I actually knew. That was preposterous.

But there he was. I was so enamored with him, I couldn’t imagine a single flaw in him. And young me thought this is what love is. I would have done anything for him. I would have let him walk all over me if he wanted. I would have readily given up everything that made me, well, me, if it meant a chance to have him. And I did. I changed the way I dressed to be more like his then-girlfriend. I started trying to be someone I wasn’t. And surprisingly, it worked! A few years later, I ended up dating him. And…it was anticlimactic. We kissed once, and there were no sparks. I had this boy of my dreams, but something wasn’t right. Shortly after, we broke up. it was mutual.

I had many crushes since, but none were as intense as Kyle. I think everyone needs a Kyle, just to show them what love isn’t. Love isn’t obsession. Love isn’t being a doormat. Love isn’t losing yourself to someone else. Kyle wasn’t a bad person. In fact, he was a great person! Just not my person.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had I ended up with him. Before writing this article, I looked him up on Twitter, my last connection to the boy that changed my life. It was…mostly hockey. Some stuff about Bitcoin. A retweet of Ben Shapiro, which is probably not a good sign. But mostly just hockey. Even if middle school me got her way, she’d be miserable today. I’d be miserable today. I don’t give a shit about hockey or Bitcoin, and Ben Shapiro kind of sucks. And he’d be just as miserable with some eccentric artsy chick who likes Bernie Sanders and blogs for fun.

Sometimes we don’t get what we want, and that’s okay. I’ll let the Rolling Stones take it from here.

Left Behind: The Kids: The Discussion: Part One

Ah, premileenial dispensationalism, the eschatological position that boils down to “God sweeping away his chosen few in preparation for ending the world or some garbage.” It’s a divisive theory held by many American Evangelicals and not many other Christians, including many of those affiliated with the Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, Anglican, Episcopalian, Methodist, and Lutheran churches. Despite all of these well-established organizations having different interpretations of the Good Book and generally calling bullshit on this theory, it persists to this day, unsurprisingly perpetuated by the same population that thinks COVID is a hoax and left-leaning politicians drink children’s blood.

But it makes for some damn good reading. Sharknado good.

Enter the Left Behind series, literature’s answer to delicious cringe. Penned by Jerry B. Jenkins and Tim LaHeye, it was beloved (or hated) enough to score not one, but two film adaptations, one of which starred Evangelical darling Kirk Cameron. Not content to just pollute the minds of adults, the series was expanded to kids with the aptly titled series Left Behind: The Kids.

My good friend Luke of the ex-Pentecostal blog Unlearning Together (IG: @unlearning_together) mentioned re-reading the kids’ books as a project for their blog, and the idea seemed genius. Unpacking some deep-rooted religious trauma while shooting the shit about some cringy book from years ago? It sounded like a great time to me. We found some used copies on Amazon and so the games began. In several upcoming posts, we will read and discuss this literary tire fire. Below is our pre-reading discussion. Digressions include terrible fanfiction.

Luke: Hell yeah, I’m hype for this.

Jess: Right? Like I remember there being no likable characters. Or even memorable ones.

Luke: Yeah, they were barely even tropes. It was “the rich one,” the youngest one,” “the black one,” “girl.” Featuring “adult.”

Jess: I vaguely recall looking through the TVTropes page for the original books and thinking that all the characters had really awkwardly porny names.

Luke: Bahaha, yup.

Jess: RAYFORD STEELE. BUCK WILLIAMS.

Luke: RAYFORD STEELE IS 100 PERCENT AN 80s PORNSTAR NAME. Also, Nicolae Carpathia is absolutely a character in bad vampire porn.

Jess: The rule 34 almost writes itself.

Luke: Honestly.

Jess: Has Rayford Steele/Buck Williams slash been written?

Luke: If it hasn’t…it’s about to be.

Jess: THAT ship hasn’t been written. Buck/Nicolae, however…

Luke: Oooooh, spoicy. I want to look it up but I’m afraid.

Jess: There’s also an *NSYNC crossover fic. I think I found our next project.

Luke: YESS.

Jess: Oh god, the first chapter has a very explicit JC Chasez/Lance Bass love scene. I’ve seen too much.

Luke: NOOOOOOOO. Someone sat down to make this a reality.

Jess: IMAGINE BEING ONE OF THE MEMBERS OF *NSYNC AND FINDING THIS.

Luke: I wonder if Lance knows. He’s pretty active on TikTok. Hmmm…

Jess: I mean, I’d read slash of myself. Just because morbid curiosity.

Luke: Fair. Probably same. The weirder the pairing, the better to be honest.

Jess: You should see some of the Queen fanfics I’ve seen. Again, morbid curiosity. I declare myself cleared of all charges.

Luke: Bahaha. But have you been on the Property Brothers side of fanfiction?

Jess: I…don’t think I want to know.

Luke: It’s amazing.

Jess: I shall take your word for that. Anyways, any final words before we dive into this trash fire of a book? It’s not too late to turn back.

Luke: No turning back. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

To be continued…

An Open Letter to the Church

Hi Church! Yup, the “big C” Church. Whether you’re a pastor or part of the congregation or even just an Easter-and-Christmas Christian, this letter is for you! Yay!

So here’s the thing. I really want to go to church with you. I really do. I want to have Bible studies and deep theological discussions with you. I want to break communion bread with you. I want to lift my hands in worship and bawl like a baby to “How He Loves” with you (the “sloppy wet kiss” version, of course). But I can’t. And all because I’ve committed the heinous sin of wanting to marry and start a family with someone else who pees sitting down.

Consumer favorites rely on hot dog casings and netting | 2020-06-13 | The National Provisioner — This is crucial for a Godly marriage, apparently.

It’s not for lack of acceptance — roughly 80 percent of unaffiliated Christians support gay marriage. And trust me, we want in too — about 50 percent of queer folks consider themselves religious, many of them Christians. So what’s the deal? Are we too afraid to let the gates fling open, as Christ would have wanted? Are we so stuck in our old ideals that we can’t possibly change the way we do things?

I urge you to question everything. Don’t take it from me, take it from the Good Book itself.

“Test everything that is said. Hold on to what is good.”
1 Thessalonians 5:21

What if everything we were taught about gender and sexuality as it relates to Christianity is wrong? I could deconstruct the infamous clobber verses, but scholars much more well-versed in the Scriptures already have. I want to take a different approach. In Matthew 7, it is said that we are to distinguish God’s truth from lies of false prophets by examining their fruits. What are the fruits of exclusion theology? In addition to alienating the aforementioned 50 percent and denying them the church experience, we have to think about the next generation and the messages we’re sending them by holding to these toxic ideas. According to The Trevor Project, queer youth are 8.4 times more likely to attempt suicide when in an non-supportive environment. Kids freaking dying isn’t a fruit of the Spirit, right? Because that’s a pretty rotten fruit.

But Jess, you say, my church welcomes everybody! Well…

“Let your yes be yes, and your no be no. Anything else comes from a non-denominational pastor asked whether his church affirms gay people.”
Ken Wilson, the wisest pastor I know

Seriously, ask your pastor if they officiate gay marriages. Ask if they let queer folks have leadership roles. I guarantee you’ll get some convoluted “love the sinner, hate the sin” spiel. You’d be hard-pressed to find a “come as you are” hip megachurch with its own coffeeshop that would let me, a bisexual woman, even just play guitar for the worship team, much less be a worship leader. Not unless I denounced part of my sexuality and ended up with a dude, which, uh, didn’t happen.

Pastors, please rethink your stances on LGBTQ issues, and congregants, speak up. Let your church leadership know that you won’t support anti-LGBTQ rhetoric any longer. I remember standing onstage at my old church while a thinly veiled conversion therapy course for young girls was revealed. I should have walked off the stage right then. I still regret it to this day. Friends, don’t be like me. Christ has gifted us with bravery and strength to stand up to oppression. Now’s the time to be brave.

Peace be with you and all that,

Jess

How Sad, How Lovely (Or, The Tragic Tale of Connie Converse)

It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.

I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.

The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”

Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.

But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.

Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.

But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.

Do it for Connie.

Like life, like a smile
Like the fall of a leaf
How sad, how lovely
How brief

The Pen is Mightier

When I threw in the towel on writing after several failed attempts at breaking into the languishing journalism industry, my mom was the one who inspired me to start blogging instead.

“The world needs your voice,” she said. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

And then I reminded her of this bit, and then we both laughed because we have such highbrow taste in comedy.

But me? Why me? I have nothing to offer. Who wants to read the ramblings of some twentysomething millennial with too much time on her hands and no real expertise on anything except Bon Jovi and Pokemon? It’s not like I’m a political pundit or theologian. I can’t start a compelling mommy blog with all zero of my children, traveling to fascinating places is well outside my means, and I don’t have a brand to promote. All I have is myself and my admittedly mundane life experiences.

But maybe that’s enough. When I posted my most recent blog post, I was blown away by the response it garnered. In a day, it became my most viewed post by far. And my messages exploded with responses. People saying I inspired them, that they didn’t feel alone anymore in their own battle.

You see, when I began writing, back when I was in second grade, it happened out of another, albeit less traumatic, trauma. As a weird-ass kid who almost definitely had some kind of autism spectrum disorder, I was bullied pretty relentlessly as a child, and I needed an escape. That escape was storytelling. My mind overflowed with these silly stories I’d make up, and the characters in these stories became imaginary friends to me in a way. Whenever something shitty happened to me, I’d write it into the story, and by having one of my characters experience it too, I felt less alone. Writing became something therapeutic and almost sacred to me. I wrote relentlessly during class throughout elementary school, and when my family got its first home computer in eighth grade, I eschewed chat rooms and games for the word processor. Whenever I had a bad day, I’d just throw myself into my writing, and everything around me would be just a little better.

I think that’s why I still write, even after all these years, and I think that’s why I share my writing here, even when it’s difficult. Because if I can help just one person feel less alone in their struggles, everything I’ve ever gone through — every mental illness, every bad experience, every ranch dressing packet hurled at child-me — will have been worth it.

A Letter

Note: ENORMOUS content warning for this one. If sexual assault is a trigger for you, you can skip this one. Take care of yourself.

It started with an Adderall-fueled spring cleaning of my laptop’s documents, some dating back to when I’d bought it several years back. There in the word documents, between old college assignments and a smattering of first chapters of stories I’ll never finish, was a file simply titled “A Letter.” Opening it made my blood freeze in my veins as I remembered the whens and whys of the letter’s existence.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee, frankly because I wished to never see him again. It was a catharsis, a pouring out of emotions I thought I’d come to terms with. In retrospect, it affected me more than I thought. Following the incident that sparked the writing of this letter, I found myself seeking comfort in things like alcohol. I gained more weight than I ever had. My depression and anxiety overtook me to a point where my grades suffered and I needed to drop out of school — and I’d seldom gotten anything lower than an A- before.

I never intended the letter to be read by its addressee — or anyone else — but it’s been two years almost to the day since it happened. And I’m ready to talk about it. This is the letter, exactly as I wrote it the day I was raped.

It was my first time traveling alone. No family, no friend, no significant other. Maybe I was asking for it. I’ve lived enough life to not be naive about these sorts of things, but in general, I’d like to think most people are good. The handsome, friendly man you’re having lively conversation with over some craft beer won’t hurt you, right? Wrong. So wrong. So fucking wrong.

It was my last night in Ohio. The people I were staying with were all asleep. I was lonely. The extrovert in me wanted to meet people, to make memories, not just sit on my laptop in the dark. So I went to the bar on the top floor. The view was spectacular. I had one, two, several drinks. I’m no stranger to alcohol. I don’t get black-out drunk easily. I still remember all of my time up in the bar, chatting with you.

But I don’t remember how I got to your room. The rest of the night comes to me like a movie montage. I was sitting on the ledge of the window, looking out over the Cincinnati lights. Your friend was rolling a joint. Next scene. I can’t make out much, but you were on top of me. Next scene. I wake up, somehow in my hotel room. My friends were petrified I got hurt somehow. As the memories flood back to me, I realize I had been. I check my phone. You’ve messaged me. “I hope you never forget our night together.” I can barely remember it, but no, I won’t forget.

My friends leave for the music therapy conference. I need to head out to play a gig in my hometown. Wanting to take a hot shower and scrub off the uncomfortable feeling on my body, I lift my hideous rainbow grandma sweater over my head. There’s no bra. I left my bra in your room. I see I have another message. You want to see me before I leave. I don’t want to see you, but I want my bra back. So I give you the room number — stupidly — and ask you to bring it to me.

Oh, but you love me. You love how I heal people with music. You want a future with me. You’d do anything for me. You stand in the doorway, blocking me with your body. I tell you I need to leave, I need to go home. I’m cornered in the bathroom. You want to show me how much I mean to you. Your hands meet my high-waisted jeans — who the fuck gets raped in an ugly sweater and mom jeans? You begin to pull them down. I protest and pull them back up. You say fine, okay. Just one kiss. One kiss and you’ll leave me alone. Right? Wrong again.

I kiss you, timidly. You pull me in. I smell you. You lift me up over your shoulder like a ragdoll. You put me on the bed. I’m scared. I tell you I don’t want this. I say no. I said no. You should have left me alone. But you didn’t. You’re between my legs. You take off my pants. Your mouth is where it shouldn’t be. I’m shaking, struggling to breathe. I’m so dehydrated I can’t even cry. I feel sick. And then you take your dick out. You fuck me as I tell you to stop. I don’t want this. Frustrated with my whining, you pull out after a minute or two. And eventually, you leave. Finally.

But you’re still with me. I’m sore. There’s blood. I’m shaking. You keep messaging me, telling me you’re thinking of me. You call me. I don’t answer. I can’t answer. All I want is to get the hell out of Ohio. I’ve never sped so fast on the highway, crying as I tell my two closest friends what happened and hoping the sweet, sweet voice of Freddie Mercury will drown out the voices telling me this is all my fault.

But it’s not. I remind myself. You picked me up. You pinned me down. Even if — playing devil’s advocate — that previous night was my fault, for getting drunk and letting myself be taken advantage of, what you did the next morning was textbook rape. The last thing I did before I blocked you on Facebook was go through your photos. You have a daughter. How the fuck are you going to justify what you did when you have a little girl of your own? Would you want a man to do to her what you did to me? I sure as hell hope not.

I’m conflicted. Part of me wants to believe you’re good, that this was all just a big misunderstanding. That somehow I tempted fate by drinking in a strange place with strange people. That I tempted you with my ugly sweater and mom jeans. Maybe no one ever taught you about the concept of consent. And then I think about how, in less than 48 hours, you have completely destroyed my trust in people. I’m scared. I don’t know if the next guy I hang out with is going to take advantage of me. How many of the men I talk to every day or the men I admire have done what you did? It seems like every woman I’ve gotten close enough to to talk about this subject has some kind of story. And you happen to be mine.

And I hope I never, ever meet you again.

This is probably the most difficult, personal thing I’ve ever shared on here, but stories like these, like mine, need to be told. Chances are, it’s happened to someone you love. Maybe it’s happened to you. And I’m sharing this for the same reason I’ve shared a lot of my deepest struggles in my writing — because someone out there needs to know they’re not alone in this. To all the survivors out there reading this, you are strong and valuable and loved, and what someone else did to you does not define you. Take care of yourselves and be good to one another.

There is help if you need it. You can reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE or online at online.rainn.org

So You Want a Lobotomy

Amazon.com: Browne 7-1/2" Ice Pick: Industrial & Scientific

I used to wonder why somebody would consent to something as barbaric as a lobotomy. The older I get, though, the more I understand why someone would want to stab an ice pick through their brain.

There are days I wish I could do it to myself, perhaps with the nearest writing implement. Anything to numb my brain for just a moment. As you’ve seen in my previous posts, I can’t do much weed without literally going crazy, and alcohol tends to become a problem if I use it too often. And what would numbing myself to my own thoughts do? You can only get so high before the inevitable fall. And even if I lived an entirely straight-edge lifestyle from here on out, which is a real possibility considering every legal substance short of caffeine has been problematic for me, and had all my symptoms under control via my psych meds, there’s always that worry that the intrusive thoughts and anxieties are going to come back, probably worse than ever. That’s how it’s always been. Out of one storm, directly into another.

I’ve been getting back in touch with my faith, though several roadblocks have tried to stop me. One of the biggest has been my mental health. It’s hard to imagine a loving Father letting his child go through this when He has the power to stop it. I’d readily stab myself in the brain with a pencil if it meant my future children didn’t have to grow up with depression and OCD like I did. Maybe life is like a game of the Sims, and just like I give my Sims unfavorable traits to spice things up sometimes, God’s like, “hmm, let me sprinkle a little bit of mental illness into this one and see what happens.”

What Is Simulation Theory? Do We Live in a Simulation? | Built In — (And then I get paranoid that all of existence is a simulation and then it’s back to being hella frustrated I can’t have a freaking brain that doesn’t suck.)

But a part of me is convinced that my mental illnesses aren’t just a design flaw or an accident of evolution or even the work of a capricious deity. Perhaps there is a deeper purpose behind it all. When I was younger, I had no frame of reference for what OCD or depression even was, aside from the cartoonish portrayals in the media. I knew something was wrong with me, but no one talked about mental health. It was this taboo subject. Maybe, just maybe, I was given my particular brain, as well as the capability to write, because the world needs more voices from mentally ill folks. Thankfully, mental health is well on its way to becoming a normal and acceptable topic, but it’s still hard to be young (or even older) and feel like you’re alone in this fight.

I love the New Living Translation of Psalm 139:14 — “Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.” We are complex, and no place is that more evident than in our brains. We’re human and flawed, so like the rest of our bodies, it’ll malfunction from time to time, but that doesn’t stop it from being beautiful. Like the rest of God’s creation, we need to care for that brain and our bodies. You have only one — treat it like the treasure it is. And if you’re struggling with mental health, rest easy knowing you’re in good company.

That Feeling When You Die in Another Dimension

I guess when you have a mental illness, you need to stay on your toes.

I have OCD, which I assure you is not cute or quirky. There have been times it nearly drove me to suicide. Not exactly something you’d see on Monk or in one of those “These pictures of disorganized garbage will drive you insane” posts your grandma sends you on Facebook. I have a particularly hellish but not uncommon form of OCD where you hyperfocus on the fact that you can, in fact, hurt someone else and/or yourself at any time. You know in your heart you never would, that you’d sooner yeet yourself into a meat grinder before actually harming anyone, but the fact that you have the power to or that it even crossed your mind in the first place makes you feel like absolute shit.

I had it under control for almost a year, no panic episodes or anything. HAD.

Because I Got High - Wikipedia — Ah yes, the theme song of this blog post.

It was probably triggered by the weed, to be honest. I decided to unwind with a little, not thinking it would have any significant impact on me. If it’s legal now, it should be fine, right? I’m in a safe place, my OCD and other mental health issues have been tamed, and overdosing isn’t really a problem with weed. I thought for sure I’d be okay.

Wrong. Absolutely wrong. It started when I had a thought pop into my head, as thoughts tend to do, but this one was about a story I’d read in my psychology textbook years ago. This ordinary, straight-laced guy had a brain tumor that essentially turned him into a pedophile. What if that happened to me? Or what if I got some kind of brain injury that made me a murderer? What if I killed someone? What if the weed damages my brain to the point where that actually happens? What if I’m killing my fiancée right now? What if my fiancée was killing me instead? Why is my throat so tight? Am I being choked? Was my throat slit? If I fall asleep, will I die? Am I already dead? Did I die in another continuity?

Sayonara Earth 616! The Marvel Universe Is Gone! — Earth-616 Jess is dead. RIP.

Of course none of this actually happened, but the delusions felt so real to me. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in the psych ward.

I finally came to, with a new realization that my OCD wasn’t tamed but simply dormant, and the thought that a substance, even one as innocuous as weed, can reignite the flames of mental illness is horrifying. This isn’t a ‘90s DARE “drugs are bad, mmmkay?” type thing — I know it legitimately does help some people, and that’s rad. But if you’re living with a mental health issue or take any kind of psychiatric medication, you have to be incredibly careful and accept the fact that weed (or alcohol or anything) might not be for you. You’re not missing out by living sober when your own sanity is at stake. As for me, I no longer wish to indulge in anything that can fuck with my brain. I refuse to let anything have that much power over me again.

Toxic Nostalgia

So today at work, I was scrolling through my playlists when I found THAT playlist. The one I haven’t dusted off in ages, the one I used to consult regularly in preparation for the event of the week — Sunday morning church.

And if Elevation’s “Resurrecting” WASN’T in that playlist, were you really a worship guitarist?

I was a fixture on the main stage of the megachurch I attended at the time. I’d drag my gear to the backstage area, banter with the production guys, and once the lights in the auditorium went down and the spotlights flashed on, I’d throw myself into the music, into worship. The music itself was never especially complex — same few chord progressions, same delay-infused chimey licks that wouldn’t sound out of place in a U2 song. In fact, if you’ve been to a modern church within the last 20 years, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But the emotion, that feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself for just a moment. Like a drug, you spend the rest of your life chasing that high.

Sometimes I wonder why I left it all behind.

I felt like a rock star at my old church, but I knew it would come crashing down. I was bisexual, and I was slowly realizing the person I truly wanted to spend my life with was my best friend, another woman. There was no way I could have both. Leaving the evangelical church allowed me to finally live authentically, but at what cost? Chances are, I’ll never set foot on a stage of that size again. I’ll never hear the ring of my guitar through a room that could easily fit three houses inside. I’ll never have people tell me how much of an inspiration I am to their kid. I’ll never have that euphoria that only comes with leading worship at such a massive level.

It’s easy to get nostalgic for things that are toxic. You look back at a past friendship or relationship with these rose-tinted glasses that erase all of the pain it caused you. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it’s also biased as heck. You don’t want to remember the shitty parts, just the parts that made you happy. And you forget that in order to grow into who you are now, you needed to shed that old shell.

I don’t mean to throw any shade at my old church (which will remain unnamed), as they’ve helped me in times of need, and to be honest, I met a lot of very rad people because of my involvement there, many of whom I still speak to today. But I couldn’t live with the cognitive dissonance any longer. In order to grow as a person in Christ, I needed to not only leave the church, but leave behind the harmful lie that God will send me to Hell for the crime of loving another human who sits down to pee. But leaving the church also meant leaving behind the life I’d grown accustomed to, standing in the spotlight before crammed auditoriums week after week. 1 Corinthians 13:11 talks of putting away childish things. Maybe my need to be admired — my need to leave church guitar case in hand every Sunday feeling like a rock star — was the childish thing I needed to put on the shelf.

I won’t deny myself the chance to mourn the loss of my previous church community. I do miss my time there every now and then, but it was important to leave that season behind in order to grow in my faith journey. In order for a plant to flourish, one must cut off the parts that are diseased or damaged, even if the process hurts. Never make the mistake of romanticizing that which was harming you.

There was a time a few short years ago where I couldn’t imagine worship without the lights and fog machines and crowds with raised arms. Worship looks a lot different to me now. Whether it’s meditating on the living room floor, gazing in wonder at the blessings around me, listening to a dusty old playlist at work, or even just sitting in a quiet dark corner of my apartment with the same Sunday morning songs my hands have, for better or worse, committed to memory. To God — not me — be the glory.

This Is Me Trying

I was fortunate enough to grow up with Taylor Swift’s music, quite literally. She was always walking a step ahead of me, writing music that reflected upon the season of life I was currently in from the perspective of someone who’d just lived it herself. She felt like an older sister figure of sorts, creating the soundtrack to my own dreams and fears and letting me know that whatever interpersonal peril I’d gotten myself into, she’d been there as well.

Cardigan' Easter eggs decoded - CNN

She knows all too well.

This isn’t an article about Taylor though. It’s about me.

If you’ve been following this blog at all, you’d know that I could slap my name on a copy of the DSM-5 and market it as my autobiography. And for the longest time, I was getting shitfaced at my own personal pity party in a paltry attempt to numb my own head. I was a ragged tapestry of depression, anxiety, a budding eating disorder, and what was becoming an addiction to alcohol. My fiancee was heading down the same road, two flaming tanker trucks careening down a highway with no brakes. Two nights ago, we crashed. I was sick. She was scared. I didn’t know how to help her. She had the worst panic attack she’d had in years. I just passed out in my own vomit.

In “this is me trying,” Taylor Swift details her own failures. Once again, I hear myself in the words:

I’ve been having a hard time adjusting
I had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting

They told me all of my cages were mental
So I got wasted like all my potential

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere
Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here

I was always the “good girl.” The “pretty girl.” The “smart girl.” I’d had mental health issues my entire life, but I’d always been able to manage them somewhat, at least enough to retain my position as the golden child. The stresses of adulthood and the weight of some poorly dealt-with traumas wore down my defenses until suddenly, I barely recognized myself. Of course I wanted to drink myself to death. I felt like I had little left to live for in the first place.

Then I woke up.

My fiancee drew a line. No more drinking. No more self-medicating. Instead, we stand and fight, and this time, we fight together. The battle against addiction and mental illness is never an easy one, but now, we have something to live for. In just the first few days of sobriety, we’ve rediscovered our creative passions, our love for each other, and our futures. Today in Whole Foods (while shopping for tea to displace our alcohol), we stumbled upon a can of fancy-schmancy cold brew coffee. Nothing special at first glance, but the brand name? Cadence. The exact name she and I had agreed to name our first daughter someday. And it felt like this peculiar sign that maybe everything would be okay.

No, no maybes. We were okay. Even if the road is hard, we’re going to get healthy and happy.

It’s still early in the battle, but I already feel victorious. The first step is admitting there’s a problem. And as I go into my second month of work, I’ll get my insurance back and finally be able to tackle all of the physical and mental health issues that have been holding me back. Then eventually, I’ll be able to finish my music therapy degree without the weight of my own mind pinning me down. We’ll save up money and get into a better living situation. And someday, God willing, I can be the mother Cadence deserves to grow up with.

And I just wanted you to know this is me trying.